Times Like These
by NortheasternWind
Summary: After a brief incident with demons Uriel and those she led against them fall ill. It's clearly some devious demonic plague, so of course Abaddon is concerned. Fluff without plot?
1. Chapter 1

This is just sort of a self-indulgent thing and I'm not entirely sure how it happened. One moment I was writing The Tale of Abaddon and Uriel, and the next this popped out. Continuation coming I dunno when, since I'm trying to focus on my main fic sob sob please enjoy though. In case you're wondering, the Hellguard ships it too.

* * *

Uriel knew by sheer instinct that she had awoken much, much later than usual.

Telling the time from her bed was rather difficult, but the distant blare of trumpets told her the rest of the realm had already started on its business, and that she was late for hers. A rare and unacceptable occurrence for the lieutenant of the Hellguard.

Uriel threw the covers off and sat up, and regretted it almost immediately when her vision darkened and her head burst with pain. Waiting for it to clear did very little, and in fact she swore the pain intensified until it was pounding on her skull from the inside.

Pushing off her plush bed to a stand was also a mistake. Uriel's energy was usually slow in coming after waking up, but she knew at once that this time was different. Already she felt as though she'd climbed several flights of stairs on foot. Her chest heaved with the effort of replacing lost breath, and suddenly her stomach was a yawning chasm of pain that seemed to sap all the strength from her limbs. She took one step and felt goosebumps erupt on her skin; took another step and felt a sheen of sweat break out all over her body, cold air washing over her like a wave.

She didn't even make it to the door.

* * *

Abaddon had taken notice of Uriel's unusual absence, of course—she was always early, and though he would never admit it to anyone but Azrael he was always looking for her—but had thought nothing of it, reasoning that she had just returned from a demonic incursion and deserved some extra rest.

But roll call came and went, half an hour became one hour, and then two, and when Uriel was not the only one absent from their drills Abaddon was forced to acknowledge that perhaps something was wrong.

The explanation was not long in coming: a solitary angel he did not recognize approached with an air of urgency about her, and only gave a short bow before launching into her report.

"My lord! I come from the medical wing. Doubtless you have noticed the absence of several of your finest this morning."

"Those who returned with Uriel yesterday," Abaddon confirmed, dread growing in his heart. He could not possibly have failed to notice.

The angel nodded. "My wife was among them. She woke up terribly ill this morning, and when I sent for a doctor we learned she was not the only one. They brought some ailment back with them, my lord, and it is recommended you establish a quarantine until they recover."

Abaddon's mouth thinned into a displeased and he nodded shortly, dismissing her. A plague! That would explain the lack of resistance Uriel reported: the demons' purpose had not been the attack, but what followed after… An artificial plague. The weakening of the Hellguard.

"They would have made it contagious," he said aloud, drawing the attention of his subordinates. "Round up those who share quarters with anyone who returned yesterday! Spread the word." Angels were quite resistant to disease, but they shouldn't take any chances. Anyone already ill would either have been escorted to the nearby hospital by a comrade, or…

"And," he added, "Instruct someone to search the quarters of those already ill. I would hate for anyone to die in their beds for being forgotten."

Uriel had no one. Abaddon had his own home, but Uriel slept in her own suite in the barracks. No one would have noticed if she had fallen ill…

"My lord," an angel said, bowing low. "With your leave, I will organize the investigation."

He couldn't possibly be so obvious, Abaddon thought. "Do that," he said, silently grateful. "I shall return shortly."

And momentarily freed of his responsibility, the general immediately went on his way, not knowing or caring who saw him and guessed his destination.

* * *

Most of the White City kept their doors unlocked as they slept, but Uriel was of a prestigious enough rank to want her home guarded—against rivals in Heaven as much as unexpected intruders. She would, of course, have locked it again as she left, and so the fact that Abaddon found her door securely shut told him absolutely nothing.

Naturally Abaddon held a copy of the master key to the entire building, but some part of him blanched at the thought of entering Uriel's home uninvited, and so he knocked anyway.

"Uriel?"

No answer. As expected.

Whatever Uriel had done this morning had not included opening the curtains, at least: they tainted the light streaming through them and bathed the wide living room in a dusky orange, making it feel later than it truly was. Abaddon locked the door behind him and strode with purpose to what he knew to be Uriel's bedroom door—from the similarity to other such quarters, of course. He had never been in here before…

"Uriel?"

No answer, again. Cursing the strange, unpleasant feeling in his chest, Abaddon scowled and opened the door.

"Uriel!"

He found her face-down on the ground not three steps from her bed, and was at her side in an instant. Entirely heedless of the warning he himself had given to his men earlier Abaddon knelt and gently turned her over, mindful of her wings, and pulled her against his shoulder. She was still in her nightclothes, some part of him saw distantly, but he stubbornly pushed down the heat that rushed to his face at that realization.

"Uriel," he called, shaking her a little. She breathed—she was alive, had not died in his inattention, but for her to collapse so easily…

"Uriel," he said again, willing her to awaken—why he did not know, when she would be equally incapacitated while conscious, and when he knew already that she lived, but there was a hunger in him that would not be satisfied by those thoughts, and so he continued:

"Uriel!"

Finally she stirred, summoned back by his voice; she groaned pitifully, and her eyes opened a crack, and she took one look at his face and closed them again.

"Uriel," he repeated, this time more gently: "You are ill."

She exhaled softly, her head lolling back against his shoulder. "Am I..." Heavens, but her voice sounded awful— "...hallucinating… as well…?"

Something in him leaped at that, but he swallowed it down. "Much of your squad has taken sick. I have come to retrieve you myself."

Uriel opened her eyes again, shot through with red he noticed, and looked wearily up into his face. Seeming to find what she was looking for she closed them again, relaxing and allowing the line of her shoulders to soften.

"My lord..." she breathed.

He needed to take her to the hospital, Abaddon thought, see that she was treated, and soon—a brief (lingering) touch to her neck revealed a dangerous fever, and he could already see that she was covered in sweat—but he did not want to move. The cold fear in his gut could not possibly compete with the inexplicable thrill in his chest, the strange comfort of seeing his lieutenant so unusually relaxed—alone, unarmed and unarmored, in his presence.

But she was also vulnerable, he sternly reminded himself, and after one last moment (carrying a being with six limbs, two of them significantly encumbering, was no simple task, he reasoned) he lifted her into his arms and stood.

 _She looks more peaceful than when I arrived_ , his traitorous mind whispered, but he abandoned that thought before it could go any further and turned to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

_So basically nothing happens here but I wrote it and I figured I should post it. HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY. I'll label this one complete, but there may be a third part after Uriel's recovery depending on how I feel. Don't wait for it though. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

When Abaddon failed to fall ill despite his exposure to the plague he gathered a squad of those similarly immune and led them against the demons. Without knowing how the plague was spread, there was little they could do but destroy everything: kill the demons, demolish their stronghold, burn all that remained. It would be a long while before anything could inhabit what they'd left behind.

When they returned Abaddon did not retreat to his home—he had not been there since the morning of the plague, so he supposed he ought to save himself some trouble later and stay in the infected barracks. His presence worked wonders among the Hellguard, and as tales of the excursion spread he might have sworn there was more energy all around despite the circumstances.

He still had his duties, however, and it was not until much later that he was able to justify a purely selfish visit.

Uriel had not awoken even once during his absence, the healers told him, although she had stirred some in the past few hours. That was encouraging, but like the other afflicted angels her feathers had begun to fall out, and even if she made a full recovery she would be earthbound for a time.

Abaddon grimaced. Rare was the angel who preferred to walk when their entire realm had been built around flight. It seemed unfair, that she should be so inconvenienced in exchange for proving her mettle yet again.

He could not rationalize any more than a simple inquiry as to her condition, but the staff seemed to anticipate his need and gave him her location without any fuss. And so, feeling somehow indecent, he made his way to her room.

* * *

Uriel woke again buried in soft blankets, sinking into a soft bed that was definitely not her own—there weren't enough pillows for that, for one thing, and the one pillow she did have was not near firm enough. But it was comfortable, and surprisingly cool for the weight on her, and for a moment she relaxed and contemplated returning to sleep.

But then she remembered what she had fallen asleep on—hard armor, calloused hands—and distantly realized why she was not in her bed.

Taking a deep breath, Uriel sat up slowly—and was assailed by the same pain in her blurry memory, almost instantly feeling sick as well. From somewhere far away she heard a rustling of cloth, and then a hand grasped her shoulder.

"Uriel," a familiar, gruff voice said.

Uriel moaned and pressed the heel of her hand into her brow. Everything hurt and she was sore, and tired, and freezing now without the shield of her blankets, and she swooned as a darkness fell over her mind—but the hand gently pushed until she was laying down once more, and then the bed creaked under a new weight at her side.

"Uriel," Abaddon repeated, and Uriel appreciated the quiet of his voice: she wasn't sure her headache could take much more. "How do you feel?"

Uriel sighed and opened her eyes to look at him, distantly noting that he was wearing robes instead of armor.

"Ill," she responded. Her voice sounded weak even to her.

Abaddon's wings shifted at his sides. "A demonic plague," he said. "They intended it to spread across the White City before claiming any victims, but you and your squad fell ill so quickly there wasn't much of an epidemic."

It took Uriel several shamefully long moments to understand what he'd said. "Then, you…"

"Don't appear to be in danger," he finished for her. "It seems to be more effective the younger the victim is, and I am ancient indeed." He chuckled softly, and the warm sound was a balm on Uriel's spirit.

"How many dead?" she whispered.

"...Three," he said quietly. "Their deaths are not your fault."

"But they are..." Uriel paused for breath, closing her eyes against a wave of nausea. "...my responsibility."

Abaddon's expression hardened. "Then you may deal with it when you recover. You are not out of danger yet."

Uriel blinked up at him blearily. Seeing Abaddon out of his armor was rare indeed, but he looked no smaller for it.

"You are quarantined as well."

Abaddon scowled, but to his credit he hid it well. "I am infected, even if I am not ill. So, yes."

"Then..."

"The demons have been dealt with," he assured her, in a tone that told her exactly how he felt about the ones responsible for their woes.

Uriel sighed and closed her eyes. Then, that was everything taken care of… The only thing left to do was to wait for the plague to run its course.

Abaddon's weight disappeared from her side as he pulled the covers back over her. "Rest. I am perfectly capable of maintaining the Hellguard without your assistance for the time being."

"But..." Uriel laughed quietly, though it hurt her throat and left her without breath. "Who will you complain to while I am gone?"

"I'm sure I'll live," he said sardonically. "Be sure to get better so you can make up for it when you return."

Uriel smiled, allowing consciousness to slip away. "Yes, my lord."


End file.
